


Laranthir of the Cruel

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [21]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Gen, Light Angst, Mentor/Protégé, Relationship Study, minor depictions of violence, mostly laranthir's pov, spoilers for the level 60 Personal Story, takes place mainly in the vigil, the bunny rabbit saga finally in full print get yours today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: The tale of the commander's first pet, and in a way the Grand Warmaster's as well.
Series: roza [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Laranthir of the Cruel

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoy this one! <3 also happy birthday to my friend teeb 🥳  
> 

It begins like this.

Well, it truly begins with a final complaint, a prickly splinter of a sapling, and a glare of defiance so vitriolic Laranthir nearly balks from the task of somehow cultivating it into anything less than a nightmare. But after he accepts it nevertheless, it begins like this.

The sixth bell has just been rung. In the moment of its final toll, Laranthir smiles, thanks the crusader who had come to him seeking help for her time, and waves her off with a promise of a meeting the following morning should she still need it.

He tries to be quick about ushering people out of his office come this time of day. Roza had once walked in on him sending off a missive with a messenger boy, and the look he had given both Laranthir and the poor child had been dramatic enough to rival even the most jealous glare of a spurned ex-lover. Not… that Laranthir has any experience with those. On the record.

He has been trying to slowly push Roza’s training towards more administrative duties, in the hopes that he will one day operate as Laranthir’s own second. Almorra seems to want him on the front lines, which is a little annoying, but ultimately it is up to Roza himself. He would be wasted as just a field agent. (And no, Laranthir _doesn’t_ want him by his side just to stave off loneliness, no matter what a certain charr may insinuate about the matter. He simply has both a heavy workload and a good amount of common sense, and he is humble enough to admit that having someone as mentally astute as Roza around greatly boosts his own efficiency.)

Not a minute after the crusader leaves, the door opens. Roza walks in, arms crossed and face smooth and impenetrable as carved stone. He strides halfway across the room, doesn’t salute, and stops.

Stares.

Laranthir stares back. After about twenty seconds of complete silence, he says, “Ah, hello.”

Roza moves forwards in a sudden jolt of motion to dump something onto his desk. He steps back and crosses his hands behind his back with a pleased air, shoulders relaxing somewhat.

A mottled white rabbit sniffs Laranthir’s desk curiously, nose twitching as it catches the scent of the food he has called up. It makes for it immediately, and he gently grabs it before it can move further.

“Hello there, small one.” He pets it on the head as it glances around, surprised but not frightened at his handling. One of its hind feet, which scrabbles for a moment at his breastplate, is bandaged. Ah. “Bold little thing, aren’t you?”

Roza, who has still not sat down, breaks into a rare smile. “Eirwen,” he offers.

Oh no.

Laranthir sends a quick prayer to their gracious Mother. “A lovely name. And now that you have helped her so kindly, it is time to say goodbye and let her back outside.”

Roza’s smile disappears.

 _… who watches over us all, grant me strength._ “You cannot just keep a wild animal, Roza,” Laranthir tries to reason in the most sympathetic voice he can muster. He ignores the creeping sense of foreboding nestling into the back of his mind. Roza is a sylvari, yes, but he is a very sensible one. Of course he is not going to let himself get unnecessarily attached to a rabbit. “She belongs to the mountains, not you.”

Roza levels him with a scowl fierce enough to flatten said mountains. “No.”

Laranthir sets the rabbit back down on his desk. Roza immediately snatches it up, glaring protectively. Brambles. The rabbit, for its part, doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, its eyes start to close. How dare it be so uncaring as to Laranthir’s predicament?

“Roza,” he cajoles, fully aware that Almorra is going to laugh at him for this later, “She cannot be happy in here. Rabbits live outside in nature, where they have plenty of space to run around and be free. They don’t belong behind stone walls.”

Roza’s eyes narrow into slits. “Neither do sylvari,” he points out.

Thorns, Laranthir is going to have to pull rank on him. And for _this_.

“That’s different,” he begins with a pained smile. Internally, he heaves a sigh. It is going to be a long evening.

~*~

“And there,” Laranthir points, “You can see Milton’s apple trees dotting the fields. The farmers of Applenook keep the Vigil supplied with produce, and in return we defend their lands against pirates and wandering predators. Maintaining trade relations is important even for a military.”

They are about an hour’s walk away from Vigil Keep, and have another one until the sun sets. Roza, sitting next to him on one gently sloping hill out of many, curls his fingers in the grass. He looks out obediently over the fields, but his eyes are glassy, and he says nothing.

Laranthir glances at him to catch his attention, smiling when he does. “Is there something bothering you, Tactician? We can eat early if you are hungry.”

Roza’s brow furrows, then clears. “I am not.”

He sounds as if he wants to say something else. Laranthir, never one to rush him if he needs time to articulate his thoughts, waits patiently.

Surely enough, Roza continues after a minute. “You… have pulled me from my duties,” he says slowly, as if still turning the sentence over in his mind. His gaze suddenly intensifies, although his head does not so much as twitch, and Laranthir realizes he has only just made eye contact.

“Oh, I see. Did I take you away from anything important?” If Roza is upset by it, it is an easy enough thing to apologize for. Perhaps he had been reading—he truly does _not_ like to be interrupted. Laranthir has a small stack of complaints tucked into the back of his desk that prove it.

“No.” Roza shakes his head once, frowning again. “Tedious, perhaps. But why would you ask for me?” His forefinger and thumb pluck a blade of grass from the ground. Then another, quickly. And another.

Laranthir offers him another smile, gesturing to the open air around them. “I thought I’d grab you for a picnic, since it’s such a lovely day outside. You’ve never had one before, right?” Not hard to guess; Roza has barely had anything before. “I had some free time before our meeting, so—”

“So you chose to spend it with _me_ ,” Roza fires, as if it is an accusation. An entire fistful of grass gets ferociously uprooted. “That I fail to understand. Why?”

Ah. It is another one of those things about him, then, that is perplexing only before it is a little sad. Laranthir tries his best not to let his face soften too much, at the very least to let Roza keep his pride intact.

“Well, I like spending time with you,” he explains easily. The more embarrassing truth is that he thinks he might enjoy their meetings more than any other part of his day, which he probably shouldn’t. But the Keep is sometimes a little too cold and grey for a being like him, and the rush of warmth he gets from helping Roza when its walls turn amber is enough to thaw any numbness that settles in his fingers.

Surprise creeps over Roza’s face before he quickly peels it off (he is becoming unnervingly good at that). He twists a blade of grass around his forefinger, but doesn’t pull it out.

“And everyone else was busy,” he ventures, half a question.

Laranthir gently squeezes his arm. “No, Roza. The Vigil has no rule against fraternizing, as organizations like the Seraph or the Legions might. General Soulkeeper and I discussed it in depth when we first founded this place, as a matter of fact. Fellowship grants loyalty, we decided, and as long as the chain of command isn’t being broken, there lies no issue in strengthening bonds. General Soulkeeper is a charr, after all. She understands the importance of such things.”

Roza looks at him carefully. “So… we are wasting time together for no good reason.”

Laranthir’s smile brightens. “Exactly!”

Roza lets out a startled laugh, which cuts off abruptly as his eyes go wide. He lets go of the ground, turning away hastily to busy himself with their picnic basket. Laranthir bites the inside of his cheek, saying nothing. _One_ day he will risk teasing him, but not while he is so fragile.

They eat as they always do: in comfortable silence. Roza eyes Laranthir’s pickles—or at least, he seems to—and Laranthir, not least because he has always had a sneaking suspicion that his protégé simply does not eat anything at all on the evenings they don’t see each other, pretends to be distracted for long enough for one of them to mysteriously disappear.

Speaking of which…

“Did you know, I have been getting the oddest complaints from the cooks lately?”

Roza stiffens suddenly, as if he expects Laranthir to accuse _him_ of single-handedly clearing the Vigil’s pantry of lettuce. “What?”

“Apparently there is a vegetable shortage.” Laranthir raises his eyebrows. “Mostly greens—lettuce, cabbage, that sort of thing. The cooks are mystified, because it is not as if we are all suddenly eating like rabb—”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Roza says tightly.

Laranthir blinks. “What?”

“What?” Roza shoots back, fingers twitching.

Laranthir stares at him. No. _No_ , he can’t have…

“Roza,” he says slowly, “You… did not keep that rabbit that you found two weeks ago, did you? Please, _please_ tell me you did not.”

Roza glares at him as if he has just insulted Dagonet himself. “I did not,” he retorts.

“Of course.” Laranthir lets the relief seep into his voice. “Silly of me to assume. You wouldn’t—”

“But if I did it would be because she needed a _home_ ,” Roza interrupts loudly. “And she gets lonely without me! She would get lonely, I mean. If I had kept her. This entire time.”

Laranthir goes back to staring at him in disbelief. Roza does not seem to appreciate this, if the way his glare sharpens into a glower is any indication.

“Maybe you are simply a heartless cad,” he hisses viciously, completely unprompted.

So much for loyalty. Laranthir opens his mouth, to say what he does not exactly know, and is saved from his indecision by a sudden piercing pain as an arrow flies out of nowhere and imbeds itself into his arm. He is up in an instant, grabbing his bow and firing back despite the pain that lances through his torso.

He hears a gurgling scream as he nocks a second arrow. He uses it to readjust his aim. A little to the left, breathe, release. The scream cuts off abruptly. A dozen yards away, a dark figure drops to the ground.

“Two more,” he hears Roza call lowly from behind him. He spins around in time to see a tall human dressed in ill-fitting gear scrabbling at their neck, their own shadow twining around their throat. Roza twists his wrist, and with a sickly crack, their neck snaps.

“One more,” comes the correction, smug as silk.

The last—pirate, judging by his sun-weathered skin and stained clothing—glances at them both, then draws a wicked blade and charges at Laranthir. He ducks just in time to avoid a swing that would have taken his head off. Dancing backwards to not get hit, he awkwardly reaches for another arrow.

His arm twinges. He grimaces, hand falling limp at his side. The pirate, seeing his opening, swings again. Laranthir just barely manages to dodge another fatal blow.

“Roza!”

“ _Stöðva! Skuggar, ég er húsbóndi þinn núna_.” The words are quiet and mildly accented, but audibly laced with magic. The man stops in his tracks, struggling against black, deceptively wispy coils of shadow. Roza approaches from behind, fingers reaching for his neck.

His eyes flicker with movement, and then, for some reason, he stops. Laranthir gets the same strange feeling he had earlier: that dark, heavy weight of _presence_ that tells him Roza is looking directly at him. For a moment, no one moves.

Then the man thrusts his blade forwards and Laranthir cries out, collapsing backwards as red-hot pain stabs into his side. He hears a panicked curse, and then a sickly squelch. The pirate’s body drops into his blurry vision, mangled head rolling to face the sky.

“Shit, _fuck_ , fuck.” Roza is kneeling down in front of him but a moment later, fingers flitting rapidly over his breastplate. He quickly figures out how to unlatch it, and less than ten seconds later it falls onto Laranthir’s legs.

“It’s alright,” he mumbles, ignoring the throb in his arm and pressing his hands to the sap leaking from his side. His armour had thankfully absorbed the brunt of the blow. “I don’t think he hit anything important. I have a med kit inside my pack.”

“ _Fuck._ Fuck me.” Roza doesn’t seem to be listening to him. He tugs at Laranthir’s fingers with his own, frantically trying to check the wound. “I shouldn’t have hesitated. This is my fault! This is all my fault.”

Laranthir notes the panic in his voice and reaches out, curling a loose fist into the front of his robe. “Roza.”

Roza ignores him still. Laranthir tightens his grip despite the pain and barks, “Tactician!”

He looks up, eyes wide.

“I need you to get my pack, take the med kit out, and help me clean and dress the wounds. Then we will head back to the Vigil, and I will go the menders’ quarters. Do you understand me? Nod if you do.”

Roza nods. Laranthir releases him and manages to musters up a smile. Roza looks as if the last thing he is able to do right now is return it.

Thankfully, he seems perfectly capable of following instructions in his state, although it is with a blank exactness that borders concerningly on frenzy. It is probably good he is being forced to deal with a situation like this now, Laranthir muses. If he thinks about it, he can treat this like just another lesson, albeit a bit of a painful one.

Roza’s jaw clenches as he cleans the thankfully shallow stab wound, and Laranthir tries his best to be unreactive, although he cannot help one small hiss. Roza freezes at it, then keeps going, hands trembling faintly.

“Maybe you should just stay inside,” he blurts a few minutes later, thick and upset.

“All day?” Laranthir tips his head to the side, trying to sound playful. “That’s not very healthy.”

“I…” Roza’s fingers flex into the bandage he is holding. “My fault. This is all my fault. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not,” Laranthir soothes. “You did not stab me, did you?”

Roza’s mouth creases downwards. “I might as well have. I hesitated. I thought—”

He breaks off, shaking his head. Not a minute later he has done the most he can do, and Laranthir lets him fuss pointlessly over the rest of him so he can work off his agitation.

“I thought you would see,” Roza finally admits after he has managed to argue his way into carrying Laranthir’s bow and quiver, although not his breastplate. “I was about to kill him, and then I looked at you, and…”

He swallows, glancing away. “All I could think was that you brought me here just to spend time with me. You are the only person who has ever liked me, and I didn’t want to make you afraid of me. I didn’t want to ruin this too.”

 _Oh_. Laranthir lays the hand of his good arm on Roza’s shoulder, expression softening. “I understand, Roza, truly I do. Know this: I have seen people I hold dear do worse things than simply kill someone in a gruesome way. And guess what? They are dear to me still. You could never be something that I fear, no matter what.”

Roza’s lips stretch into a thin, hesitant smile. “Are you certain?”

Laranthir’s hand moves to his cheek, patting fondly before dropping. “Of course. Might I say one thing, however, for next time?”

Roza’s face falls in shame. “I know. Don’t hesitate. I gave him an opportunity, and it was _idiotic_ of me—”

“Roza.” Laranthir steps in front of him. “Look at me—up, up. There. Next time, little sapling, just try to remain calm.”

He smiles in reassurance. “I am fine, aren’t I? It is just a surface wound, and I am still alive. Next time your partner gets injured, you breathe, you keep your wits about you, and you reassess. Remember our breathing exercises?”

Roza nods. “Good,” Laranthir says. “Do those if you have to. I will speak to Forgal about the matter, and we will modify your training sessions. You have only done assault training so far, correct?”

Roza nods again. Laranthir mentally bookmarks the topic, then glances over at Vigil Keep, standing tall and proud in the distance.

“Lead us home, Tactician,” he says. “Oh, and don’t think I forgot about the rabbit thing. We are having a _discussion_ about that when we get back.”

~*~

_… with Laranthir of the Wild, although his title should really be Laranthir Hates the Wild, if you ask me. He certainly doesn’t show any of his famed compassion to completely harmless, innocent little animals. Perhaps some previous traumatic incident has damaged him in a fundamental way, and he can no longer care about anything that has more than two legs. I purport that…_

Laranthir lets out a heavy sigh, leaning his head into his hand and closing his eyes. It has been a little over a week since their picnic, and whatever sentiment had made Roza tail him like a wide-eyed sylvan pup for the majority of his recovery seems to have worn off. He rubs at his temples tiredly.

“I know your sweet little artichoke is doing half your paperwork for you, Laranthir, so there’s no reason for you to be complaining.” Almorra, seated at her place at the war table, addresses him without looking up from her own work. “Go grab a drink if you need it. Not from my stash.”

“A rabbit,” Laranthir mutters, head still in his hand. “I can’t believe I’ve found the _one_ thing he’s nice to and it’s a bloody rabbit.”

“What?” says Almorra.

“Nothing.” He scrapes his palm over his prickles, wincing as his arm throbs faintly. “I’m, uh… investigating the vegetable shortage.”

Almorra looks up, squints at him suspiciously, then looks back down again. One of her ears twitch.

“Right,” she says.

After a brief internal debate, Laranthir tears a missive strip from his notepad. He clicks his pen and writes:

_Tactician,_

_I find it necessary to remind you that I am the one who reads all your reports, and you need not refer to me in the third person as excessively as you do. On that note, uncreative nicknames are also rather unneeded. Please try to be more succinct._

_Laranthir of the Wild_

He sends it off with Addam, the Keep’s main messenger child (and aspiring future Warmaster), overpaying him by a silver to cover any additional psychological damages. He comes back fifteen minutes later, cheeks flushed.

“Can I get a bunny rabbit too, Mister Laranthir?” he bursts, thrusting out a piece of paper that has two suspicious strands of white fur stuck to it.

“No,” Laranthir tells him as he takes it.

_Grand Poormaster,_

_I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you are the one who should be more succinct; it would certainly cut our meeting times in half. There are only so many ways to say, “Tactician, please help me cheat on my paperwork.”_

_With utmost sincerity,_

_Roza_

“It’s not _cheating_ ,” Laranthir mutters under his breath.

“It is,” Almorra rebuts from across the table.

“Mister Roza is so nice!” exclaims Addam. They both look at him.

Laranthir says, “Pardon?”

Addam smiles. “Hey, after you stop being his boss can he be my boss? With Yosif? He gets two, so I do too, right?”

Laranthir frowns. “I’m not going to stop being his boss.” He puts his pen down, stretching his wrist with his other hand. “Even after we.… No, he’ll most likely always report directly to me. You want him to mentor you now?”

Addam shrugs. “Well, he told me he’s super busy doing stuff for you, so maybe not. Yosif always has time for me, plus he saved me, so obviously I’m not going to _ditch_ him. And maybe he’ll let me have a bunny rabbit. Okay bye!”

He waves at the both of them and runs off, ending the conversation with all the grace of a preadolescent child. Laranthir chews on the end of his pen, brow creased thoughtfully.

Almorra flicks a ball of paper at him to get his attention. “Thinking about your artichoke’s future prospects?”

“Must you treat me like a target in a children’s game?” Laranthir mutters, irritated. He tosses the balled-up paper aside, not minding where it lands.

Almorra’s eyebrows raise alongside her top set of ears. “Huh,” she says after a pause. “Maybe you really have been spending too much time with him.”

For some reason, that rankles. “I can assure you, General, that every moment we spend together is as productive as it can be.” Despite _multiple_ people’s thoughts to the contrary, apparently. “I will emphasize again, if I have to, that Roza is still in a very vulnerable position. He needs my mentorship. Up until the moment both him and I decide he does not, I will aim to provide it.”

Another pause, this one more heavy. Almorra has stopped what she is doing and is scrutinizing him with an astuteness that is a little disconcerting. Laranthir shifts in his seat, doing his best to ignore it.

For a tense minute, the only noise in the room is the quiet scrawl of his pen. Then Almorra says in her gravelly voice, “No one is going to take him away from you, Laranthir.”

Laranthir’s pen digs into his paper. He drops it. “Excuse me?”

“You get a little tetchy around the subject.” Almorra holds up her hands. “Look, I get it: you’ve been taking care of him this whole time, and you’re a little protective. But the kid is obviously attached to you, even if he does like to fuck with you. He’s not going to just drop you out of nowhere. Now calm down—you being annoyed is flaming weird.”

Laranthir sinks into his seat, deflating. “Pale Mother grant me peace of mind,” he sighs. “You’re completely right, as always. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she mutters gruffly. “Really. The kid still thinks I’m impressive, and that’ll only last as long as _you’re_ the one handing out the cheesy advice.”

Laranthir laughs. “Noted.” He exhales heavily, puffing out his cheeks. “Maybe I should get a therapist.”

Almorra eyes him thoughtfully. “You know what? Maybe you should.”

~*~

Laranthir is leaning against the tall wall tapestry proudly displayed in the Vigil’s mead hall, watching his soldiers shouting, drinking, and occasionally making fools of themselves. He remembers thinking that it was such a strange thing, to have a room mainly reserved for celebration inside a military fortress. Was it not a great waste of space? Almorra had simply pointed him at a norn, who had proceeded to talk his ear off about things he hadn’t understood for nearly half an hour. Now, however, he does understand. After an event like Claw Island, a perfect demonstration of just how close Zhaitan’s forces are to breaking down Tyria’s door and killing them all…

Laranthir takes a sip of the mediocre ale a Warmaster had shoved into his hands earlier. He understands.

He is watching a few people: Roza chief among them, followed by Trahearne. He hasn’t seen the scholar for some time, but he is as quiet and introverted as he remembers. He holds himself as if he feels out of place here, with his shoulders stiff and his fleeting smile polite and uncertain. Laranthir wonders if he has it in him to lead this “Pact” he and Roza have proposed. If he does not, hopefully he realizes he need only look behind him for support.

Roza, for his part, seems to be honouring Forgal’s memory just as a norn would. With alcohol.

He is hovering around Trahearne’s general vicinity, but he is also far chattier than he normally is, interjecting his opinion into conversations that don’t involve him and fluttering his hand dismissively when people ask him who he is. It is actually quite entertaining to watch. Laranthir should probably go fetch him.

But Roza isn’t really his ward anymore, is he?

He takes another sip of his drink.

After a few minutes Roza spots him and decides to come over, approaching with his head held high. “Laranthir,” he enunciates.

Laranthir tips his flagon. “Warmaster.”

Roza settles next to him on the tapestry, pressing his shoulders to the hard wall behind it. “If I fucking am still. Who knows? I don’t. I don’t know anything anymore.”

Laranthir glances at him, giving him a cursory onceover. His expression is looser than usual, although it still has that ubiquitous uncaring air that has become so familiar. His posture is slouched, hips sticking out at an angle that would make it very easy to kick his legs out from under him.

Laranthir goes back to surveying the room. “Are you drunk?”

Roza snorts. “Not enough for this conversation.”

Ouch. Laranthir winces and makes to take another sip of his drink.

A cold hand covers his, stopping him. “It takes but one fool to ruin a pleasant discussion,” Roza murmurs. “Let us not double the odds.”

Fair enough. Laranthir sighs, hands falling back down. No use in delaying this any longer.

“So,” he says to the far wall. “How are things going with your plans?”

Roza’s arm is warm against his, although the breath from his weary sigh is not. “I don’t know, actually. I’ve been kept out of the loop. Trahearne is here to talk to Almorra, and then…” He gestures ambiguously, the arm that is not pressed to Laranthir carving a dramatic arc through the air. “’n’ then who fucking knows? Not me. I have to follow him around now, of course. Wyld bloody Hunt.”

Laranthir turns to him with a frown. “You do not look forward to progressing your Wyld Hunt?” From what he’s heard, a Valiant usually feels as if their Hunt surpasses nearly everything else in importance.

The shoulder against his shrugs. “No.”

Roza looks away. “Want to stay here with you,” he adds quietly.

Oh. Laranthir’s fingers tighten around his flagon. He swallows, pushing down the lump in his throat.

“You get to be with Trahearne now,” he says. “Finally, after all these months of looking up to him from a distance.”

His lets his eyes roam idly over Roza’s face, not watching him more than taking him in. He looks healthier than he did when Laranthir first met him, and he feels it as well. There are even a few small stems sprouting from his branches, as if they are just waiting for an opportunity to bloom into something more.

Hopefully Trahearne will remember to feed him.

Roza looks at him. Although he barely moves at all, Laranthir has learned by now how to track his eyes. He says, “Trahearne isn’t my friend.”

Laranthir seeks out their fellow sylvari automatically, scanning the bodies in the hall for his tall form. He finds him standing by himself, toying with the ferns of his clothing.

“That is a bit harsh,” he says without much affect.

“And?” Roza, on the other hand, injects the one word with as much vehemence as he can. “He has scarcely done anything for me. _He_ is not the one who cared for me, who guided me.”

Laranthir looks back at him in surprise, not expecting such hostility. Roza’s eyes shine darkly, his sharp features set as if carved from stone. Laranthir touches a gentle hand to his chest, catching his attention.

“Be easy on him,” he says softly. “He needs your support. I imagine that without it, this undertaking would be far too daunting.”

Roza’s shoulders tense further, and then forcibly relax. “I suppose you would know,” he mutters. “Pah, fine. If you give me the remainder of your drink, I will be nice to him.”

Laranthir hands it to him. He takes a sip, and wrinkles his nose. “This tastes like shit.”

Laranthir makes a noncommittal noise. Roza downs the rest of the flagon regardless.

They are mostly left alone as the evening stretches on, although Almorra looks over at one point to give Laranthir a nod. Usually, it means _Stay sober_. Now, however, it may as well mean _Make sure you’re coping with the loss of not only one of your friends but also in a way your ward and close companion of over eight months._ He nods back anyway. Perhaps nods have lost all their meaning now. Perhaps Roza should stop being such a miser and stealing all his drinks.

His reaching hand gets slapped away. “No,” says the miser.

Greedy splinter of a sylvari. “You are unfair to me,” Laranthir complains.

“And you made a promise. Look, he comes this way. Something wicked…” Roza breaks off with an abrupt giggle. He knocks back his current glass.

Laranthir doesn’t remember making _that_ promise, but he doesn’t push the matter. Trahearne is indeed heading towards them, a hesitant smile pasted on his face.

“Valiant,” he greets. A pause, and he corrects: “… Roza. Laranthir, it’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Firstborn.” Laranthir greets him in the manner of the sylvari, with a hand pressed to his chest and then spread outwards. “Congratulations on leading the victory at Claw Island. We’ve dealt the dragon a great blow.”

“‘Likewise, Firstborn,’” Roza mocks under his breath, interrupting the exchange. He imitates the hand gesture—incorrectly—and snorts to himself.

Laranthir stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Ignore him; he’s drunk,” he tells Trahearne. “How is this evening finding you? I apologize if it’s too loud—our soldiers enjoy celebrating somewhat overzealously at times.”

Trahearne chuckles. “It is a bit much,” he admits. He gives Roza a curious onceover. “But I am glad they are in a celebratory mood. I thought I’d find myself familiar company, if the two of you don’t mind…?”

“You are welcome to join us. I’m afraid this one, however, won’t be much in the way of company.” Laranthir smiles warmly, even if he does not fully feel it. He does not want Trahearne to feel left out.

“Thank you.” He looks grateful.

“I’m perfect fucking company, thank-you-very-much,” Roza half-slurs.

Laranthir gives Trahearne a pointed look. He laughs softly, although the sound is somewhat unsure. He is looking at Roza as if he doesn’t quite know what to make of him, or how to act around him. Laranthir wonders how much of his predicament was apparent through his letters. What was he like when they first met? Is Trahearne blindsided by the sylvari that stands—well, slouches—before him now?

As if following along the same line of thought, Trahearne ventures, “You are, ah, very different than what I remember, Roza.”

Roza straightens up at that. He stares at the firstborn for a long moment, eyes dark and expression unreadable. His voice comes out clearer than before when he speaks. “How so?”

“Ah…” Trahearne shifts his weight. “Simply put… you were a lot younger. You were still you, but you were yet a sapling underneath. Now you have matured into a strong young Valiant.”

He offers a smile that is hesitant only at its edges. Roza says, “Warmaster.”

Trahearne clears his throat, smile turning stilted. “Right. Warmaster.”

 _Pale Mother guide your chosen down their intertwined paths_. “If it’s not too much trouble, Trahearne,” Laranthir interrupts gently, “Could you get Roza some water? And perhaps a drink or two for you and me—he’s been stealing all of mine.”

“No trouble at all.” Trahearne steps away, relief in the back of his eyes. Laranthir feels a little bad for him as he walks off. The thought of being on the receiving end of one of Roza’s moods when things are yet so precarious does not sit too comfortably.

“I was being nice,” Roza says once Trahearne is out of earshot, which in itself is an indication that he knows he was not.

“Lie to him, not me.” Laranthir nudges his arm. “Come on, try to enjoy the evening.”

“Why, ‘cause it’s one of the last ones I’ll get to spend here?” Roza makes a bitter noise, leaning into him.

Laranthir doesn’t answer that. After a short time, when Roza’s head has become a heavier weight on his shoulder, he says, very softly, “You don’t have to go, you know.”

They both know that isn’t true. Roza only looks at him, and after a few aching seconds Laranthir looks away.

“Don’t—”

“I could never have asked for a better pupil,” Laranthir murmurs before either of them can stop him.

Roza laughs harshly—a noise like broken glass. “That’s certainly not true, you sentimental bastard.”

Laranthir laughs back, although it is more of a pained exhale. Roza turns into him more fully, pressing his face into the junction of his neck. Laranthir can feel every sharp angle against his bark.

“D’you want to know something?” Roza inhales a wavering breath through his teeth. “Something really awful?”

Laranthir stares up at the arched ceiling. “Why not?”

“The entire way to Lion’s Arch, after the island first fell.” Roza sounds far more sober than he has any right to. Another inhale, this one wet. “ _Right after_ Forgal went and got himself fucking killed. All I could think was that I was so glad it wasn’t _you_.”

His voice breaks on the last word. Laranthir slides an arm around his shaking shoulders, steadying him—or himself, he doesn’t know. When he has gathered enough of his voice to speak, he mumbles, “That isn’t awful.”

“Don’t start, Laranthir. Don’t even fucking start. I _miss_ him. I miss him so much.” Roza’s hands claw at his back. “An’ yet…”

Laranthir embraces him tightly. Roza says nothing more, just shakes his head and his back and his hands. After a minute, he pulls away.

“If this takes off, if this “Pact” becomes important and my name becomes known, you tell no one.” His voice is cool, his face impassive. “You tell no one how well you know me, understand? Even after we send that dragon to the Realm of Torment. No one.”

Laranthir scans his face, and after a brief hesitation, nods. He understands.

“Does this mean I can get a new ward?” he asks.

Roza looks at him in alarm and horror, and then, when he grins weakly to show the statement was in jest, rolls his eyes. “Thorns, I’m drunk enough to be stupid. Don’t mess with my head.”

Laranthir elbows him teasingly, although his body feels almost too stiff for it. “What about Trahearne? What if he comes to me for advice on how to handle you? Do I say that we’ve never met? He’s already seen us together; it might prove a bit difficult.”

Roza rolls his eyes again, twice as strongly. “ _Fine_ , you can gossip with Trahearne. But only nice things, or else I’ll pull the spines out’ve your smug, cotton-filled head.”

“Unnecessarily violent slurred threat noted.” Laranthir quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a hint of reverence I detect? Not _completely_ over him, are we?”

“Mulch, I need another fucking drink,” Roza mutters. As if on cue, Trahearne appears from behind a charr, three mugs wedged into his arms. “Ah—speak of the Nightmare and it will come.”

Roza puts on his widest, most disarming smile, and Trahearne looks so surprised that he doesn’t notice him picking out a mug that definitely doesn’t contain water until he is already chugging it down. Thankfully, Roza does remain—well not nice, exactly, but at least not actively hostile—for the rest of the night. Surprisingly, conversation flows fairly smoothly. Trahearne has a subtle wit and a dry sense of humour that is eerily similar to Roza’s. Laranthir can pinpoint the moment Roza himself realizes this, because he instinctively reaches for another drink. This time, his hand is the one that gets slapped away.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks now, anyway. Laranthir is certain that one day, even if perhaps months from now, he and Trahearne will easily call each other friends. Roza doesn’t give himself enough credit. He barely got along with Laranthir early on, and yet look at where they are now: Laranthir feels as if someone has reached inside of him and ripped out one of his vital organs. It’s a natural progression.

On that note, _he_ hasn’t been kept out of the loop. Almorra has told him that Trahearne is trying to figure out how the Pact’s command structure will function. And though Efut is their chosen liaison—and she’ll do wonderfully—there are still a few noticeable gaps to fill. Almorra won’t be able to take care of the Vigil and the Pact at the same time, of course, and Laranthir has recently acquired quite a large vacancy in his schedule…

They’ll see. By the grace of the Pale Tree, things will fall into place.

~*~

“Gertrude,” Roza says in a manner which manages to be both completely emotionless and incredibly judgmental.

Canach closes the door to his raptor’s stall and crosses his arms defensively. “Yes, and? What about it? At least I named him, unlike _some_ unimaginative people I could mention.”

Roza shrugs. Canach was hoping to provoke a bit of a stronger reaction than that, but he’ll take it.

“Isn’t Gertrude a female name?”

“Isn’t Roza?” Canach shoots back. Bloody flesh races and their gendering of everything. How is he supposed to keep track of the conventions of every single human name in existence?

Roza looks genuinely surprised—that is to say, his left eyebrow twitches up by about a millimetre. “Is it? No, it can’t be. It’s my name.”

This is exactly the kind of intelligent conversation that Canach signed up for when he didn’t-not-join Dragon’s Watch. He tosses his raptor a treat and stalks out of the stable, brushing past Roza’s twiggy little form on his way (every time he walks past Roza, he tries to do it quickly, in hopes of generating a breeze strong enough to tip him over. He hasn’t succeeded thus far, but it is only a matter of time).

A dark—and annoying—presence shadows him. “Did you name your springer?” Roza asks, seemingly stuck on the subject.

Canach had. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you what it is,” he grumbles. Thumper deserves better than to be mocked by a snarky thorn bush with an attitude problem.

“You aren’t afraid that when we leave Elona you will be forced to leave it behind, condemning it to a life of yearning for the transient companionship it treasured for these all-too-fleeting months?”

Canach briefly stops to stare at him. “What in the hells happened to you?”

Roza scowls. That at least is a normal enough expression that Canach keeps walking. He has an ogre camp to visit—he doesn’t have time to sort out any of Roza’s many issues.

“Where are you going?”

By the Pale Tree, when did the commander turn into more of a pesky younger sibling than an intimidating leader?

“To visit the ogres,” Canach grumbles, trying not to grit his teeth. “I want to see how they tame their pets. Perhaps I’ll even nab one. Legally.”

Roza’s right eyebrow twitches. “You are getting a pet? Are you going to name it, too?”

This has got to be one of the most absurd conversations Canach has ever had. “Probably. Why, did you want to offer suggestions? I thought you didn’t do names.”

It is true—even Roza’s raptor, arguably his most constant companion on this continent, probably thinks its name is “Good girl.” It’s not terribly surprising, to be frank. Roza comes across as someone who has all the creative skills of a leather boot.

Roza’s eyebrow twitches again. “I don’t,” he says curtly. “That is why I’m asking. I found a—”

He sighs and makes an irritated expression, as if having to elaborate for someone else’s benefit is the most painful thing he has ever experienced. “I found a baby.”

“A _what?_ ”

“Not a human baby!” Roza glares at him. “For fuck’s sake. A griffon. I don’t know how old it is, maybe a year or two. About this big.”

He holds his hands a good few feet apart. Rather large in comparison to him, but he is also rather tiny. Canach does a few mental estimates about griffon age and hatchling size to gauge its maturity, although he admittedly doesn’t know much. At most it could be a juvenile, perhaps, unless it is one of the larger breeds.

“It… _she_ was by herself.” Roza’s voice drops into a lower tone. “She was tucked into a crevice in the mountains, nearly dead. I gave her all my food, and she scarfed it up. I don’t know if I should go back to help her, or just…”

He shrugs. “… leave her there to die.”

Canach drums his fingers against his arm. Fine, he will entertain this conversation if it means Roza will leave him alone afterwards. “Well, usually I’d say to let nature take its course. There are dead animals everywhere, you know.”

Roza’s face slides into impassivity. “I know.”

“Then why do you want to help her?”

A pause. “It would give me a purpose, at least for a little while. I… would have to make a promise to her. A commitment. I cannot simply take care of her and then change my mind halfway through—either I aid her fully and she lives, or I don’t and she dies.”

Odd restrictions, but Canach isn’t going to question them. “Then make sure that whichever option you choose, you’re one hundred percent fine with the result. There, does that help?”

After a few seconds, Roza makes a considering noise. “Surprisingly, yes. Thank you, Canach.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Canach uncrosses his arms and turns away. He has an appointment to keep. Except—“Oh, Commander. One last thing.”

Roza arches an expectant eyebrow.

“If you choose to go with option one… I will say that a name is a good way to make a promise.”

Roza’s expression loosens. After a second he nods, and Canach walks away.

~*~

“We’re-having-another-picnic,” his dearest protégé blurts as he barges into the room.

Laranthir opens his mouth, breathes out slowly, and closes it. He lowers the trebuchet calibration diagram he is looking at by about an inch, but doesn’t drop it.

“Good evening to you too, Tactician.” He glances at the clock—it is just past the fifth bell. “Unfortunately, our meeting isn’t for another hour, and until then my time belongs to the Vigil. I’d be happy to discuss the possibility of another outing then, but I’m afraid—”

“It’s about Eirwen,” Roza interrupts, face pinched.

Laranthir sets the diagram down on his desk. Roza, standing in the middle of the room looking tense as a bowstring, shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Is it about… possibly releasing her?” Laranthir asks cautiously.

Roza’s mouth folds downwards, but he nods. “Talk about it at the picnic,” he bargains tersely.

Alright. Laranthir sighs and begins to put his papers away. “Fine, go fetch her. I’ll get us some food, and then we can leave.”

Roza nods and ducks out of the room. Laranthir scribbles out a note to Almorra to explain his absence, praying that she won’t question it too much, and then heads down to the kitchens to pick up some spare rations. Hopefully Roza doesn’t mind cured meat (they really do have a vegetable shortage. Apparently the damn rabbit eats a lot).

When he returns to his office, Roza is waiting for him. He is holding a mottled white, somewhat plump rabbit that is lovingly wrapped in what looks like one of his blankets, cradling it to his chest as if it is the most precious thing he has ever encountered. Laranthir almost feels badly for a moment.

“Are you going to carry her the entire way?” he asks. Roza only opens his arms in answer, revealing the makeshift sling he has fashioned the blanket into for just that purpose.

Laranthir sighs. He has a feeling this will be a difficult task for the both of them, albeit for completely different reasons. “Alright, let’s go. I know of a place nearby that she will be happy to call her new home.”

Roza stays silent during the walk there. They receive a few curious glances as they leave Vigil Keep, but people seem to sense their sombre mood—or at least Roza’s—and keep a respectful distance. Soon enough, they are trekking across the hills.

“Here we are.” Laranthir stops at the edge of a small growth of trees. A freshwater stream runs nearby, burbling away in the distance. “The land here is soft and perfect for burrowing. She will be as happy as she can be.”

Roza doesn’t reply. He kneels down in the grass, and, with a gentleness Laranthir has never seen from him before, undoes the sling holding the rabbit.

The fabric falls to the ground. The creature stands up on its hind legs, sniffing the air as its ears perk up. It hops forwards a few feet, then bends down and starts nibbling at a blade of grass.

“Eirwen.” Now Roza speaks, ever-so-softly. “No, you have to go. Go.”

The rabbit keeps eating, and doesn’t move. Roza bows his head, covering his face with his hands. He doesn’t make any sound, but the Dream dips in sorrow.

It is admittedly a little heartbreaking. Laranthir is finding it hard not to take pity on him. He kneels down next to him on the ground, setting his pack to the side for the moment.

He puts one hand on Roza’s back and holds the other one out to the rabbit. “Run freely, little one,” he says to it. He _pushes_ the words, filling them with life, and nature, and the forest he first knew as his home.

The rabbit hops towards Roza. Slowly, he extends a hand to pet it. It finishes its piece of grass, nuzzles his fingers, and then finally turns around and lopes away.

Roza watches it leave. When it falls out of eyesight, he shuffles closer to Laranthir and buries his head in his shoulder.

Laranthir rubs his back comfortingly. “I know, little sapling.” He squeezes gently. “I know.”

After a minute Roza pulls away, sniffling quietly. He stares into the grass with vacant eyes.

Well, the point of a picnic is to eat, and it is around the time for it. Laranthir pulls his pack towards himself, fishing inside for the food he has packed. Roza watches him. As he pulls out the dry rations, he murmurs, “I’m not hungry.”

“Then eat to humour me.” Laranthir hands him a cut of cured meat. He takes it with hesitant fingers.

He is not going to be much of a conversationalist right now. Laranthir considers him, then asks, “Have you ever wondered where the ‘of the Wild’ came from?”

Roza glances at him and gives a small shrug. Good enough.

“Well, today is the day your burning question shall be answered. I am no storyteller, but I will do my best. It all started when I was a sapling not much older than you. I had hair back then—can you imagine? Glorious foliage to rival even Malomedies’s younger self, or at least I certainly thought so…”

He weaves the tale as well as he is able to. It is nice to relive the time of his youth, even if a somewhat romanticised version of it. Roza listens attentively, although it is barely apparent. His body language is largely reminiscent of the first couple of months they knew each other, however, and just as Laranthir was not discouraged then, he is not now. Surely enough, by the time he is wrapping up the story, Roza is watching him in rapt attention.

“As I crossed that field, I just so happened to spot a very angry charr. And as you know, the rest is history.” He smiles, spreading his hands with a flourish. He does his absolute best to hide his surprise when Roza begins to hesitantly applaud.

“Thank you for sharing your tale of honour and bravery with me, Laranthir of the Wild,” he says. “May the bards sing of and the skaalds proclaim your legend forevermore.”

Laranthir quickly tamps down on his initial reaction to that. “I—ah, thank you, Valiant. Roza.” He really does not know anything about norn culture. “I am, uh, honoured.”

He is definitely telling Almorra about this later. He will just not mention everything else that has led up to it.

“And now it is my turn, I suppose.” Roza glances down at the ground. He runs a hand through the grass, feeling it between his fingers, and sighs. “Very well.”

“Do you remember a little while ago when you got stabbed?” is how he begins. Laranthir nods.

“Oh. Perfect, that will help. So that happened, and it has never happened before.” He tugs gently at a blade of grass. “No one had ever gotten stabbed on my side until then. No one has since, either. I do not know how often things like that are supposed to happen, but I have decided that I do not like it. So don’t do it again.”

He looks up solely to glare. Laranthir presses his lips together, and nods again.

“Good.” Roza gives a single nod back. “Where was I? Oh, yes. So you got stabbed. It was a little stupid of you, if I’m being honest, but I digress. I put my assessment of that in my report, anyway.” He had. Laranthir had read it. Almorra currently has it hanging in her office. “I was thinking about the incident. I was there, and yet you still got hurt. It made me realize something.”

“That you couldn’t have protected me?” Laranthir ventures, in case he needs help getting the words out.

Roza frowns. “No,” he says. “I realized, Laranthir, that it doesn’t matter who says they're going to protect what.”

He looks out over the fields, at green burning gold in the setting sun. “You once told me that _you_ would protect _me_. Yet you are the one who got hurt. Do you understand what I am saying? Entropy rules as the laws of nature dictate. What if I had not hesitated? What if you had brought your sword instead of your bow? There are too many variables. Too much happens that we have no control over.”

He closes his eyes halfway, turning his face to the sun. Laranthir says softly, “That is quite a nihilistic way of looking at things.”

“I am not saying that nothing matters.” Roza lets go of the grass, facing his palms upwards. “Although sometimes, that is how I feel. But even if we lack control over the big things, we can adjust for the small ones. Eirwen was not happy in my room.”

His eyes open, and they are dark and regretful. “She liked me, but that was all. You were right—she belongs outside. And so even if she will die one day anyway—even if it could be either tomorrow or five years from now, her life is not mine to make. It is like that terrible romance novel you forced me to read last month. In order for her to be happy, I have to let her go. And I have to accept that her fate is not in my hands.”

Laranthir looks at him, and then eastward, out over Gendarran Fields. The words sit uncomfortably close to the situation he has been turning over in his own heart as of late. The cold structure of the Vigil is not somewhere Roza can thrive. _She liked me, but that was all_. And he is certainly fond of Laranthir, but…

He gives his head a small shake to clear his thoughts. They are not for this evening—not even this season, if he can help it. But… eventually.

“I am glad you chose what is best for her, in the end.” He nudges Roza gently. “It is a brave thing, to do something that helps someone else when that means it hurts you. I am proud of you.”

Roza swallows thickly. “Mhm. Well, I can’t take it back now. She is gone, and she is never coming back. I won’t even know if she lives or dies.”

Laranthir touches his shoulder. “You may see her again one day—you never know. Fate has a funny way of granting the desires we hold deep within our hearts.”

Roza shrugs, but holds Laranthir’s hand in place when it starts to slide off. “I don’t think I believe in fate.”

“Then call it entropy, or nature, or just pure luck. Whatever brought her to you, and you to me, and me to Almorra.”

“‘Laranthir’s idealistic sentimentalism’ it is.” A rare, if wry, smile. Laranthir laughs, good-natured, and Roza seems to soften at the noise.

“Fine, then.” Slowly, Roza leans back and relaxes into the grass. “Just this once, I will listen to you. Now come lie down with me and be quiet. I’ve never lain in a field without any purpose before, and I would like to share the moment with you.”

Such forthrightness—is it a sapling thing, or a Roza thing? It doesn’t matter, Laranthir decides as he obeys. All that matters right now are the two of them, and the grass, and the endless sky stretching out overhead.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this you can tell me what you think it would be highly appreciated! <3 ok lov u
> 
> [song for this one!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzZ0TdK3CAE)


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